


And If You Would Call Me Your Sweetheart, I'd Maybe Then Sing You A Song

by tyrannicalTestimony



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Mother Complex, Parent/Child Incest, Sadstuck, Sexuality, lalondecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrannicalTestimony/pseuds/tyrannicalTestimony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are now Rose Lalonde and you are 8 years old.<br/>And you think you’re in love.<br/>With your mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'd Hate To See You Cry

= = > Be an 8-year old Rose Lalonde. 

You are now Rose Lalonde and you are 8 years old.

And you think you’re in love. 

With your mother. 

It’s not that strange. She’s the only one who cares about you, the only one who understands you. She’s perfect, and you love her. And you even think your mother feels the same way. 

She kisses you on the lips, after all. 

You are Rose Lalonde and you have the internet at your disposal. You usually only go on TangleBuddies.net or watch silly cat videos on youtube and think of Jaspers. This time, however, you go to Wikipedia. You look up the word “kiss” and this is what you find: “In modern Western culture, kissing on the lips is most commonly an expression of affection. When lips are pressed together for an extended period, usually accompanied with an embrace, it is an expression of romantic and sexual desire.”

Your heart speeds up and your hands feel a little clammy. Affection. Romantic.

You blush. 

Sexual desire. 

You know very little about what that means. 

You keep reading. “The practice of kissing with an open mouth, to allow the other to suck their lips or move their tongue into their mouth, is called French kissing.” 

Huh. 

“People may kiss children on the forehead to comfort them or the cheek to show affection.”

The forehead or the cheek. Not the lips. 

That’s all the proof you need. Your mother feels the same way, you just know it. And you’re going to show her that you’re ready for the next step in your relationship.

You love your mother, but you hardly see her some days. But maybe that just makes you love her more, because you miss her a lot. And she says she misses you too. She’s usually in the lab, where you’re not allowed to go. Today, she wasn't even at dinner. You miss her especially today. You can hardly wait until bedtime. No matter how much she works, she never forgets to put you in bed, tuck you in, and kiss you goodnight. On the lips, of course. You always look forward to it, but you’re especially excited today. 

You already completed all of your homework, so you write a story in your notebook for fun. It’s about a cat named Frigglish who becomes a wizard. You were going to write about Jaspers, but you missed him too much. Your mom loved Jaspers too. That’s why she put up the poem you wrote about him on the fridge. She also gave him a funeral. That was so nice of her. Honestly, you have the best mother in the world. 

You smile to yourself and hug your pillow. She usually comes at 8pm because that’s your bedtime. You continue writing your story, but you watch the clock as it ticks onward. You go to brush your teeth when it’s almost time. You frown when she doesn’t arrive at the exact time. But as soon as you hear her footsteps, you perk up. 

“Mommy?” You call. 

“I’m comning swee-heart” She calls back. 

She sounds funny because she probably drank some alcohol. She does that when her work is particularly stressful, you think. But it doesn't happen very often. It doesn't usually bother you anyway.

The floor creaks as she enters your room. She’s wearing her lab coat and looks very tired, but also very beautiful. Your mother is always beautiful and radiant. She has a drink in her hand, which she sets down on your nightstand. She walks over to your desk and leans over you. 

“Wat’re you wokring on, Rosie?” She asks. 

“My story. About wizards.” 

“Aw, that’s my girl. I wanna read it latre, you know much I looove wizards.” You giggle. She’s acting very silly. “But you shud put that away now. All good grils go to bed at 8.”

“Okay, Mommy.” You say as you put your notebook and pencil back in your drawer. She picks you up and you cling to her. Your heart speeds up. She smells like lavender and that alcohol smell. But you don’t mind it much. She always smells wonderful to you. She walks to your bed and sets you down, groaning as she does so. You already miss her arms around you. 

“Rosie, either im getting old, or yure getting hevvy. And I know I’m not getting old so we know it’s the other thign!” You both giggle. She caresses your cheek a bit and you feel yourself getting warmer. She pushes your hair back from your forehead and removes your hairband. 

“Mmm. I’m sorry I couldntn see you too much today, honey. Didya miss me?” 

“Mhm. I always do,” You reply. 

“I missed you too. Sho much. But I’ll try to…” She drifts off, as if lost in thought. She shakes her head. “I’ll be better. Okay?”

“It’s okay, Mommy. You don’t have to be better. You’re already perfect.” You say, and you mean every word. 

“Aw, yure makin’ me blush. I aint perfect, but my baby girl is.” She says, tickling you a little on the tummy. “Mmm. Okay. All reddy for bed?” 

“Yes!” You say enthusiastically. You’ve been waiting for this. 

“Good night, Rosie” she says, and pecks you quickly on the lips. She turns to leave. You missed your chance. 

“Wait!” You shout. She turns back around, looking at you questioningly. 

“Hmm? What’s wrogn?” 

“I just…” You say. “Why do you do that, Mommy?” 

“Do what?” She asks, sincerely not knowing. 

“Kiss me.” 

“Why,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed and leaning down to you, still confused, “Because I love you, sweetie! Mommies always kiss their babies.” 

“Oh. But I’m not a baby!” You pout. “And I—” You stop. You don’t know what to say. You feel a little embarrassed. You think fast. “Can I have another kiss?” She’s still looking at you funny, but she smiles, her eyes crinkling. 

“Of crosse, sweetie.” 

She leans down and you push yourself up to meet her lips. You throw your arms around her neck and hold her into the kiss. Your heart leaps in joy. You’ve never kissed her for this long.  
And then you decide to do what you were planning to do. 

= = > Be Roxy Lalonde

You are now Roxy Lalonde. You are 28 years old, and you have never been more confused in your life.

You never knew who your parents were. Some say you were found deserted somewhere. That always confused you; how your parents never wanted you. You were raised in several foster families, but were something of a child prodigy. You graduated from high school at age 14. 

You were happy to leave your foster “family,” and live the college life. You could've done without all the stress and the alcohol dependency you developed, though. You got your PhD in both biochemistry and computer science by the time you were 19. Throughout the years, your intense research won you several prizes and grants. Needless you say, you were well off by the time you turned 20. You bought a mansion and even had a lab built beneath it. 

But you were lonely. That always confused you, too. You were never able to form meaningful relationships with neither men nor women. It was mostly because you never had the time for them, but you always thought it was because there was something deeply and fundamentally wrong with you.

One day, the most bizarre thing happened while you were out shopping. A meteor crashed not too far away from you and your instinct was to run towards it. You heard a strange cry and saw something moving in the crater of the meteor crash, so you dived in to get a closer look. You were very confused by what you saw. It was a baby. A baby girl wearing just a diaper and clutching onto a ragged stuffed bunny. 

You picked her up and she instantly stopped crying. Her violet eyes and vibrant blonde hair drew you in. You never believed in fate or destiny, but you just knew that this was meant to be. You smiled at her, and she giggled, her eyes twinkling. You tried to kiss her on the cheek, but she wiggled around and you kissed her on her little lips instead. She giggled and cooed in happiness from that. You had to keep this child. She was yours. And that thought confused you more than the fact that she came from a meteor.  
You always thought that would be the most confusing part of your life. Nothing could ever top those events.  
Until now. 

Until you’re here now, making out with your 8-year old daughter. She wanted a kiss, and you gave it to her. But she clung to you and stuck her tongue into your mouth. You’re dazed. Maybe you just had a little too much to drink? You’re delusional. This isn’t happening. You lose yourself a little. You’re kissing her back.  
It’s not until she moans softly into your mouth—the affectionate moan of your 8 year old daughter—that you snap out of it. Your eyes shoot open and you push hard against her little shoulders away from you—breaking all contact. You think you’re going to be sick. Your stomach churns a little.

Rose is laying back on her bed, clutching at her sheets and looking up at you with a horrified look on her face, one that’s probably reflected on your own face. Your head is spinning. You can’t tell if you’re falling deeper into intoxication or sobering up. You’re absolutely disgusted with yourself. And with the little girl looking up at you. She speaks first. 

“Mommy, I—”

“Rose! H-how.” You interrupt her, your voice shaking with a mix between fear and anger. “Why did you do that?”

“I just—I don’t know. I thought—”

“Do. Not. Ever.” You say, your voice now migrating towards anger, “Ever. Do that again.” 

“But Mommy, you wanted to! I know you did!” She yells. You feel so sick. 

“That’s preposterous, Rose. Do not suggest such a thin—”

“Yes you did, yes you did! You kissed me back!” Her voice sounds higher than usual. 

“Rose—”

“And you’re just getting upset because you know I’m right!” 

“That’s—”

“And you’re just a lonely old woman and I’m the only one who loves you and wants you! No one else wants y—”

The sound of your palm striking her left cheek registers in your brain before the movement of your arm does. You quickly retract your hand back to your chest. Your young daughter’s face is turned away from the impact, a red welt forming quickly on her pale cheek. You watch in consternation as her eyes fill up with tears. She meets your eyes and quickly looks away, letting out a sob. You watch her in slow-motion, covering her face with both hands. She turns away from you and curls up in bed. You feel your heart breaking every second. She continues to cry silently, her small shoulders shaking. You bite your lip, feeling hollow. You stumble out of her room, turning off her light. The bile rises in your throat. You make your way down to one of the bathrooms and empty your stomach of its contents. You clean up and head towards the kitchen. 

You can feel your hands and lips trembling. Nothing could have ever prepared you for this. None of the countless books and consultants you went to for help in your motherhood was of any use. Where did you go wrong? Was it because you were hardly there to take of her these days? You shouldn’t have kept yourself so busy. You should’ve spent more time with Rose. Is that what she needed? More time with you? Was she missing a father figure—no wait, that’s only for boys, right? Was she just trying to get your attention by pulling that stunt? Where did she even get that idea? The internet? Should you not have given her so much freedom? You are the most negligent mother on the planet. It is you. 

It wasn’t like her. She was always a smart girl. Just like you, she had a sort of intelligence beyond other children her age. Whereas you were gifted in the sciences, Rose was gifted in English and the humanities. She first started speaking right after she started walking, her first word being “mama,” of course. She knew the alphabet by the time she was two years old. By the time she was three, she wrote an entire poem about her cat, Jaspers. You were so proud of her that you had it framed and welded to the refrigerator. Only the best for your daughter. 

Her teachers had told you that your daughter was brilliant. Her reading level was that of a middle school child, last you heard. She did not want to skip any grades like you did, but she was definitely smart enough. She had finished all 7 books of Harry Potter just last summer. And she wasn’t just book smart—she was aware of the world around her. She always had great insights when it came to movie or book characters. She always offered a wonderful commentary. How could she have not understood that it was wrong for her to kiss her mother like that?

Now that you think about it, despite all her intelligence concerning others, she never seemed to understand herself too well. She had very few friends at her school, but she preferred to be alone most of the times. At least, that’s what she told you. And you—you shouldn’t have listened to her. You should’ve encouraged her to make new friends. You shouldn’t have let her become so lonely—just like yourself. Maybe it was your entire fault. You kept Rose all to yourself. You let her become attached to you alone. But you never talked to her about the things that may have mattered—like having friends or societal expectations or…maybe her sexuality? But you always thought it was a little early for that. No. No way. You can’t make excuses for yourself. You did this to her. You let her become sexually attracted to you.

Your stomach churns. You need another drink. Make that two or three. You lose count of how much you drink. 

You fall asleep on the couch, forgetting that you ever laid hands on your baby girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's really too much Stridercest going on. We needed some Lalondecest up in here. Also, the very little amount of Mom/Rose fics are smutty and such. I was going for a more rational kind of fic--as rational as Mom/Rose can get, anyway. I'm really not much of a writer, but here was my attempt at it! It'll probably have two parts to it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


	2. And when you go, don't return to me, my love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually gonna be shorter but then the last few updates happened and then??? Yeah.

= => Be Rose Lalonde

You don’t dream that night. Actually, you just recently learned that if you feel that you didn’t have a dream, it just means you don’t remember it. So yes. You do not remember your dream that night. But as soon as you’re awake, you know you want to be back asleep. You curse the fact that it’s a Saturday today. You’ll have to face your mother. But not necessarily—she’s never around anyway, right? 

Just the thought of facing her again, not matter how inevitable, stresses you out. 

You think back to the kiss you had with her. It tasted a little funny from the alcohol but it was still soft and warm and wonderful. And you were convinced that she thought so too. What went wrong? You think back to her horrified reaction. She was utterly disgusted with you. She never yelled at you before. And she hit you. 

She hit you. 

And it hurt. It stung. You can still feel it. 

She’s never done that to you before. You never thought she would do that to you. You can feel the tears spring up in your eyes again. You tighten the blanket around you and curl up again.

But your mother won’t be awake for a few more hours, so you decide to get up and do some more research on the internet. There’s no use laying around and crying. That’s what babies do.

You quickly find that what you felt for her was…unnatural, but not uncommon. Although it’s usually boys who feel that way at a young age, according to Mr. Sigmund Freud. You find this psychologist very interesting. You quickly start to find the whole subject of psychology quite stimulating. The mind is fascinating. You read pages and pages of Freud’s work, as well as a few other Wikipedia articles.

And you quickly realize that the attraction you felt for your mother—that wasn't romantic love. No, that’s silly. You just have hormones and stuff. Oxycytocin released in your brain. That’s it. 

You’re such an idiot. 

And yet, you’re still angry at her. You were predisposed to having an attraction to her, as most children are. She shouldn't have teased you with her excessive kissing.

But you accept the fact that she only did that because you’re her child. 

You laugh to yourself a bit. You’re just a child. She always pretended to treat you like an equal because apparently, you've shown signs of linguistic genius. But you’re always going to be a child to her. You’ll never catch up to her. 

You open up your book of wizard stories. Ha. In retrospect, it’s pretty funny how she humored you and your stories. Always saying, “Rosie these are shooo good,” and such. What a liar. 

Why, you bet…

You bet she doesn't even like wizards. 

You’re not a child. You may be 8 years old, but you’re no child. You were only a little misguided by your feelings. Or rather, your predispositions and brain chemistry. A minor setback, really. You have a moment to yourself in amusement over your “first love” and your “first heartbreak.” How quaint. 

You continue your research over various topics, including sexuality, puberty, and development. For the first time, you begin to think that when you grow up, you might want to be a therapist rather than an author. Wizard novels are fun and all. But you could help others not fall into the mistakes that you did. 

Your research is finally cut short when you hear the faint sounds of the shower from downstairs. You immediate response is, of course, anxiety from facing your mother the morning after a somewhat traumatic event. This is normal. After the sounds of the shower and the blow dryer fade away, you allow yourself to retreat into your bed and curl up. You are not ready for a direct confrontation, no matter how much research you gathered thus far. 

You hear the creaks from the stairs as your mother ascends, and you brace yourself. 

= => Be Roxy Lalonde

You've been nursing this hangover for two hours now. A shower helped somewhat and you feel mostly ready now. But not really that ready. How can anyone be ready to talk to their kid after something like what happened last night? 

You find your way to her room, which is closed. You respect your daughter’s privacy. You knock twice. 

“Rosie?” You call out. 

“Come in,” is the muffled response. You open her door and step inside. You see her curled up in her blankets. It’s obvious she hasn’t been there this entire time. Rose was always an early riser. You feel horrible. She’s probably been in her room for hours without breakfast. You’re a horrible mother. You sit on the edge of her bed, seeing only the back of her head. 

“Are you all right?” You ask.

“Of course, mother.” She says, her voice monotonous. You've never heard her speak that way before. It’s like the cheeriness got sucked out of her. And it was you who sucked it out. You’re like a dementor, sucking out happiness from people. 

“No you’re not,” you say. You pause and bite your lip. “I’m—I’m really sorry about…about hitting you last night. That was…it was uncalled for.” And you’re sorry for being drunk. And you’re sorry for not being a good mother. Rose mumbles something in response that you don’t quite catch. 

“I’m sorry, dear. What was that?” You lean in closer to her. She clenches her blankets tightly.

“I said, ‘Maybe I deserved that!’” She yells. You immediately shrink back a little. This is so unlike her. And then you realize what she just said. 

“What?” You gasp. “No, no, no, no,” you shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “No. You didn’t, Rose. Don’t you ever think it’s all right for someone to hurt you. Ever. ” She doesn’t respond. “Even if it’s me.” 

She still says nothing. You wait a few moments. You touch her shoulder and you notice that she tenses up.

“You believe me, don’t you?” You say softly. She still doesn’t respond, but you can see that her shoulders are shaking. 

You wish she was five years old again. You wish she’d just scraped her knee, and that was the reason she was crying. You wish you could put a band-aid on it and kiss it. But you can’t kiss her ever again. You already defiled her. You took advantage of her, took away her innocence. And then you physically harmed her. Can you even hold her in your arms anymore? 

“Mother. Please leave.” She finally sniffles. 

“No, no, darling. We need to fix this.” You say, and then immediately wished you hadn't used the word darling. You've been calling her that all your life but now it just sounds so…creepy. 

“There’s nothing to fix, mother.” She says, now articulating more clearly. But there’s that word again. Not “Mommy.” Not even “Mom.” Mother. It makes you feel uneasy. 

“If you’re not ready to talk about your feelings, that’s all right. I can wait until you are,” You say. 

“There’s nothing to say about my feelings. I just made a mistake. That’s all.” 

“Rosie. It’s…it’s okay to have those feelings but—”

“I told you, this isn’t about my feelings,” she angrily grumbles. 

“Yes, but…sweetie, you’re only eight years old and you don’t—”

“I’m not a child!” She interrupts you again, her voice still muffled. She shifts around in her bed and sits up with her head on her knees, her arms covering her face. “You were the one who said I was—I was too intelligent and mature for my age and—” She begins to sob and you manage to hear her sniffle, “I’m not a child.” 

“No, of course you’re not.” You reach over to touch her hair and she retracts from you a little. You continue, “But, see…you’re my child. And I’m—I’m your mother.” 

“I know that! You don’t think I don’t know that?” She cries. You’re not explaining this right. 

“Yes, of course but. No. Listen.” You shift on her bed and put an arm around her shoulder. She shivers, but doesn't pull away. 

“Rose? Look at me.” You say softly. 

You push her hair back and touch her cheek. It’s hot to the touch and wet. You two stay like that for a few moments before she finally looks up. Her eyes, red and teary, meet yours. Her cheeks and nose are also tinted with pink and her mouth is pulled into a frown, quivering a bit. She looks like a child who just lost her teddy bear, rather than a child who’s heartbroken over the romantic affections of her mother. Oh, how you wish it were that easy. If only a teddy bear could solve all her problems. Her eyes narrow, expecting you to say something. And you hope what you have to say will help. 

“Rose. One day, someone’s going to love you very much. Someone is going to be able to love you in ways that I can’t, and…” You cup her cheeks with both hands. “You’ll be happy. You’ll be able to start a new life with…her, or him, or whoever you choose!” Her eyes look away from you for a few seconds in contemplation and then fall back to your face.

“I’m just, you know, your silly old mom! There’s much more to life than just me.” You add, offering a weak smile and chuckling a bit. But Rose isn't amused. You make your face serious again, lean in closer, and say, “But really, Rose. Take my word for it. There’s someone out there, waiting just for you.”

You can’t read her expression. This is the first of many deadpan expressions you see her make five years after this expression. You bite your lip.

“You…you believe me, don’t you Rosie?” You say. “Do you understand?”

The corner of her mouth twitches just the slightest bit. You can tell that she’s coming up with a million different things to say to you. She finally picks one. 

“If I say that I do, will you finally leave me alone?” She says, her voice cold and her violet eyes defiant. 

Your heart breaks all over again. You tried. You really did. You suddenly feel a little angry at her, and that fact upsets you almost as much as what she just said because you hurt her the last time you let your anger get to you. You let go of her face. You recompose yourself and change your tune. 

Act like a mother. 

“Yes, of course dear. Well, you must be hungry. Clean up and come down for breakfast. I’ll make your favorite chocolate chip pancakes today.” 

“Okay,” Is the meager response you get. Her face still holds that blank expression. You get up from her bed and see that her eyes follow you. Her mouth quivers a bit. She has not yet mastered the deadpan expression. She mouth gets twisted into something of a pout. Her eyes are still blank, though. So it’s all the more haunting when a single tear rolls down her soft, childish cheek. 

Your heart plummets. This is the end for you two. This is it. You and Rose—your relationship—will never be the same. So this is your last chance. You lean down and wipe away that single, runaway tear. You cup both her cheeks again, close your eyes, and lean in. You think back to when you were younger, and Rose was just a baby. That was your first time kissing her. 

And so you press your lips to hers, one last time. Her mouth is warm and salty. You hold the kiss there for at least three seconds. She tenses up for one of those seconds and relaxes for the next two. 

You probably shouldn’t have done that. You know you shouldn’t have done that. But you also knew that it would be the last time you could ever kiss your daughter again. 

You finally pull away, turn around, and leave.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” is your parting remark.

And you make the pancakes, just as you do every Saturday morning. 

= = > Be Rose Lalonde 

You can’t believe she did that. You lightly press a finger to your lips, remembering her touch just a few moments there. It makes your heart ache. You grit your teeth and wipe your mouth, her red lipstick staining your hand. 

It seems that your snarky comment wasn’t enough. She still somehow managed to one-up you. Going from acting like a mother, kissing you, and then acting like a mother again. Now she’s downstairs, making pancakes. You bet she’s wearing an apron too, like mothers are supposed to. There’s a word for something like that. You rack your brain for it while heading to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You read it somewhere…right! Passive-aggressive. 

And then it occurs to you that this isn’t her first time doing that. That stupid poem you wrote that she framed and welded to the fridge? The funeral she gave Jaspers? Her sharing your interest in wizards? All of that was a ruse! Passive-aggressive attempts made at you for her own amusement so she could snicker to herself afterwards. And you bought into all of her fake “motherliness” like a sucker! You spit out the toothpaste in disgust and then head back to your room to change. 

Always treating you like a child and trying to treat you like an adult at the same time. Telling you that you’re the most mature and astute girl she’s ever heard of and then…rejecting you over your childish crush and then…kissing you again just to spite you. What a joke. Really, mom? Really?

Well, if she wants to play that game, you will too. 

You put on a prim and proper dress for your hearty breakfast with your lovely mother. You put on a winning smile and head downstairs.

You spend the next five years like this. Constantly snarking at each other, trying to one-up each other. She gets you a pretty princess doll. You turn it into an Eldtrich princess, complete with tentacles and an octopus head. You’ve long since strayed away from wizards and princesses. You become more interested in Lovecraftian horrors and the bestially strange and fictitious. Your mother doesn’t even try investing her interests in those things just to spite you. She already ruined wizards for you. She’s a merciful woman.

So you get her a vacuum cleaner to show your appreciation for her, complete with a beverage holder. She has it bronzed as a statue as thanks. The shrew won that time. Over the years, many empty suicide threats are made on your part, and she returns them with her ironic indulgences as well as negligence.

And over those five years, you forgot why you and your mother first began to antagonize each other in the first you place. You repress the memory; shrug it off. You assume you two had always been that way. You tell your friends as much. 

And then you get caught up in a new game that you play with your friends and you forget all about her. Now that you think about it, you were probably using that game as a distraction. You wanted to be away from her, to do something independently of her. And so you don’t even think about her. You don’t worry about her. And least of all, you don’t expect Jack Noir to kill her.  
Why didn’t you go looking for her? 

And it makes your heart ache because it was you who let her die. You were too busy with your own antics to even think that she needed to be protected. And your anger gets the best of you. You fall into the grimdark throes, even though you were warned about those by both John and Jade.

But you don’t regret letting the Noble Circle of Horrorterrors take you over. You wanted vengeance. But it wasn’t enough. Not that it matters. You became a god. John scratched the session. And you learned that you’d meet your mother again.

And this time, she’d be the same age as you. 

The thought scares you at first but then you fall into the resolve that…you’re over her. It’s been years. You were a child, despite all your claims. You’re over her.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you’re in love with an alien girl named Kanaya Maryam. You spend three years with her, and you start falling in love very slowly. But the more you fall for her, the more you realize how much she’s like your mother. You trade snarky comments with her just like you would with your mother. She fusses over you like your mom would. Even the curls in her hair are something like Roxy Lalonde’s.

And so you deal with your newfound love the same way that your mother would deal with her problems; with alcohol. It takes the edge off. It really does. You’re ready to begin again with this new girl. Your mother told you this day would come; that you would find someone who you would love and she would love you back. 

But when you kiss Kanaya, her mouth only reflects the taste of alcohol on your own mouth. And your own mouth tastes like your mother’s when you kissed her hard that one time.

It disturbs you and you fall over and you dream of her that night. You dream of meeting Roxy Lalonde as a teenager. But it’s not just a dream; you actually meet her. Your heart pounds. She’s wearing what your mother would normally wear. She smiles up at you. She’s so happy to see you and you feel the same. You almost reach her but then…then you wake up. 

And you wake up in a cold sweat because she was so beautiful. So, so beautiful. She was so much more attractive as a teenager than as an adult. You didn’t think that was possible. It scares you. Why did she have to be so goddamn charming and—and ravishing? Why does she have to attract you like that? Why do you still have those feelings? Kanaya stirs beside you in the scalemate pile.

“Are you okay, dear?” She murmurs, cupping your cheek. Ugh. More parallels with your mother. 

“Mhmm. I’m okay.” You say. But you’re not okay. You’re anything but okay. Because you’re going to have to see her soon in a few months. And when you do, will you be able to hold back?

You start drinking more, despite your ecto-brother’s complaints. Dave would’ve never understood. You always insinuated that he had something of an Oedipal Complex. Just another way to poke fun at him. He’d never let you down from it. He thinks it’s something of a problem but...you can’t stop. Just like how you can’t stop being in love with Roxy. Just the thought of seeing her gives you so much anxiety, you can hardly bear it. 

And when it’s almost time to meet her, you simply can’t bear it. So you drink. You drink until you forget about your problems and your biggest problem is now fixing up an imaginary town made of cans.

And Kanaya—oh god. You made a promise to her. And you broke it. You fucked up. She yells at you and you beg for forgiveness and she’s—she’s such a dear. She’s angry, but she doesn’t break up with you or anything—thank goodness. She drags you to the roof and well, you think you’re ready to meet her—to meet your mother—again. 

With the taste of your mother on your tongue and your blissful state of drunkenness, you’re ready to see her again. 

And start over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really tried to tie things in together! Hope you guys liked it.


End file.
